This is the house of Love, which has no bound nor end.


The sun is shining through my window
and into the kitchen sink in such a way
that it caught the french press mid-rinse
and made three rainbows against
stainless steel sides as the song changed
and music I have only heard in dreams
suddenly danced out our living room.

Of course, these lies have nothing
to do with what it was really like,
except to say that I am really here,
fully present after so many lifetimes
of practice and make-believe play.

And though poetry is just a shadow
designed to prove that there is light,
this liar knows what that moment meant,
washing dishes with both soap and sun.


Modern volk

And square adagios